


Bound

by susabei



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Internal Monologue, twist ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:28:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25636558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susabei/pseuds/susabei
Summary: Scorpius has been captured and struggles to maintain his will. Oneshot.
Relationships: Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy
Kudos: 12





	Bound

**Author's Note:**

> Round 6 of the QLFC has us keepers writing about themes of being trapped and being free. It was a fun lil idea, and I had this plot come up almost immediately. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Once again, I am keeper of the Wasps :) this fic's content warnings are spoilers! So if you don't mind them, here you go: gross married couple being in love (hetero pda), and mentions of going hungry/starvation.
> 
> 1028 words

He's been like this for a long time. Bound. As long as he can remember, actually— his memory hasn't been keeping anything from his last few weeks of life — and now all he will know is this prison. Until, perhaps, they release him. Or otherwise. He does not wish to find out what that  _ otherwise _ is. Good or bad. 

No. He should want to know. To not want to know is to grow complacent. Happy with his prisoner status. No longer dreaming of a day when it will not be like this.

Muscles strain against his shackles: a forcefield that imitates comfort and warmth. It serves to trick him ( _ don't grow complacent don't grow complacent don't grow complacent) _ . To soothe him into a false sense of security. It's terrifying how well it works. How well it  _ tricks _ him. It smells like all the good things in the world, in this prison. Like home. Like his father. Like his mother. Mother. Mother.  _ Mama. _ Her touch! What he would do for a hug, an embrace! For her to release him from this hell. Where all he can feel is his own helplessness. The discomfort of suppression. 

Aside from his own suffering, his own desperation for salvation, there is only darkness. Speckles of light might filter in through the thin membrane separating his sight from the world, but it does nothing. He has no memory of the light. Of how his cell looks. The voices of those he loves are even fading. All he can perceive are the occasional murmurs of someone (something?) from nearby, though they do not address him. Not directly. The mockery! They should acknowledge when he's in the room. His captors know nothing of manners. How things are done. 

He thrashes again: all the force of a great white shark caught in a net pushing back against the fisherman. Of lightning being forced inside a bottle and rioting madly in an attempt to free itself. Is there a reason his captors do not address his attempts at breaking his chains? Do they not notice him? Or do they know that it is hopeless? 

A small gurgle erupts from the pit of his stomach. He's hungry.  _ Starving. _ When was the last time he ate? Hours ago?  _ Days ago?  _ His mouth opens and closes, remembering what it was like to drink til full. Tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth and drying at the contact with the air. In this forsaken place, there is no passage of time.  _ No sense of time. _ But his body knows when he should be eating. Sleeping. Without a clock. Without the sun. 

His stomach aches and contracts with a sad and dangerous emptiness that threatens to consume him. Consume him like his exhaustion. He is tired. So tired.  _ Angry _ that he's so tired, all he wants is to release his tension and rest. Drift away into sleep. But no! He knows he must continue to fight. The moment he gives into his fatigue is the moment  _ they _ win. They'll know their ropes or chains or whatever the  _ hell _ is keeping him stiff as a corpse works. And they'll continue to use it. To subjugate him. Drive him mad with delusions of freedom.

Perhaps it will succeed.

The struggle: he twists and contorts his nearly cocooned body, searching for any weakness in their handiwork. Begging for his luck to turn around and offer him liberation. His arms, tight at his side, do not move. They lift a fraction of a millimeter, if that, and do not go further. His legs, bent rather than straight, aren't much better. He longs to stretch. To extend his entire self outwards and relieve himself. Even his fingers! Though he knows he will keep them tucked into fists. Anger compressed.

Something rips. Or untucks. Or loses power. The boundary that's been keeping him a sitting duck slips (he can feel it!), and he sees his chance! All the force he can muster goes into his right arm: struggle! Shake! Strike!

His elbow is the first to release itself, jutting out from the rest of his body at an awkward angle. It's wildly uncomfortable, but to know that it escaped causes great triumph. Soon afterwards, his entire arm follows it, widening whatever point of weakness he was able to make in order to begin freeing his other arm. It shoots out, reaching into the world. His chest swells! His lungs fill with air, victorious and gleeful. Finally!  _ Freedom! _

...

"—Darling!" Astoria tuts, glancing down at the crib, "Scorpius is out of his swaddle! Are you sure you did it right?"

Draco lifts his head, distracted from his previous task of undressing his wife, "Of course I did; I did it as I was taught—How Mim said it was done!" There's no way their loyal house-elf would lie to them. "He was perfectly bound and set for his nap!"

Scorpius wiggles and stretches out his tiny limbs from out of the blanket, cooing and looking entirely like a chick springing from its egg, still unable to open his eyes, and yawns.

"Well, then he's a little fighter, isn't he?" Astoria hums, reaching forward to caress her son's cheek. "Look at you! So young and already rebelling."

"He hates it," Draco states, watching his young son squirm with vigor. "Look at him! He wants that blanket burned."

"So dramatic." Astoria chuckles, whisking her wand out to swaddle Scorpius once more. "He's just like you, you know. Does melodrama run in the Malfoy veins?"

"And the Black veins," Draco says, remembering his mother's more flamboyant habits.

"Well, tell him he needs to stop. He needs his nap. Then it's his feeding time."

Scorpius fusses greatly as his mother re-swaddles him, completely offended at the injustice of it all. Draco comments that Astoria's technique is  _ exactly _ what he had done before, and she teases him that their son clearly likes her better. This, naturally, isn't a big deal, but he can't help but point out that that's because she's the one with the food always on her person. She pinches him.

Scorpius falls asleep moments later to the sound of his parents laughing.

**Author's Note:**

> Another old entry cross posted onto here. I'm actually on round nine now!
> 
> If you liked this story, check out my other HP fics!


End file.
